John Houseman's Diary - Mission EUCALYPTUS (part 4 of 7)

1st August:

Not much hope in Bois's friend. Desmond went to talk to a man working in the field in full view of a German post on the hill. We watched the Germans on the road a few yards away.

After long discussions, initiated by Bois, it was decided not to go to his house in Villard de Lans as we planned originally, but to leave him here and to continue on our own to the Ishre. It was, of course, the only sensible thing to do as Bois was not capable of much more. So, after getting some more food for us from his farmer friend, we said farewell, and kissed each other 'good-bye'. Desmond and I, much relieved (to be honest), set off alone.

This, of course, had been a very momentous decision. It was precipitated mainly by Bois' dire condition. In St. Martin we had known him as a lively alert person, always jovial and ready to be made fun of. Now, after the exertion of our journeys through the forests, our rough living and, most of all, the lack of food and water together with his almost fanatical fear of the Germans, with imaginary machine guns round every corner, he had crumpled into a weak, unreliable (though always charming) old man.

We felt very unhappy at leaving him - he seemed so helpless and hopeless. On the other hand, he was only a few miles from his own farm (if it was not occupied or burned), he was a Frenchman and he knew every inch of the country and many of the farmers and inhabitants.

For us the stay with him meant considerable delay. We could have gone to his farm, as we originally planned, stayed a few days in the woods eating well in order to recuperate before our journey ahead - but if we had done so, I am certain he would never have contended with the 250km trek we had decided upon. His pace was so much slower than ours, and his staying powers so much lower. He realised all this equally, and it was he who first suggested the parting of the ways.

Bois had been a great friend to us all, and we'd acquired a great affection for him.

And so we parted, not without some feeling of relief. Our plan was as follows:

To cross the main St. Martin - St. Nizier road about 5 miles further north, and make straight for the Ishre, perhaps towards St. Ettienne or at La Riviere, for over the mountains. There we would cross the river, and make our way, alone or with what help we could get from the Resistance, towards the Swiss border.

It was a moonlit night, too bright from a safety point of view, but our spirits were high and hopes had risen. I felt as if I was going to a Promised Land. A land where new possibilities existed, where opportunities would be more numerous and, at all events, outside the Vercors which, by now, had become in our minds a cage of hunted men.

All went well and we made fast progress. We crossed the road without difficulty and climbed the steep hill on the farther side, keeping, as far as possible, to the shadows. We had no definite information as to enemy positions, merely the non-so-encouraging news from Bois' farmer friend that escaping Maquis were shot on the tracks every night.
At 3 am we were perhaps a third of the way up the mountain, a very wall between the known and the unknown, and we stopped to sleep.

2nd August:

We slept late, starting again about 10 am after a breakfast on wild strawberries.

The day was hot as we wound our way up the mountain aiming for the peak which marked our route to the Ishre. Occasionally we saw figures moving in the woods, but, upon closer scrutiny, found they were escaping parties of Maquis. Two hours or so later, we came upon a farmer making hay, and we stopped to ask him for news. He told us he had not seen any Germans in these parts of the mountains, and told us where to find the next water point. Two men appeared as we were talking whom, for the somewhat fabulous sum of ten thousand francs, were enlisted as our guides to take us over the summit and down to a friendly farm near the banks of the river.

We set off again, glad to have someone to show us the tracks instead of having to pick our way through bushes and rocks. Half an hour later we called at a wooded shack (where I think they lived), and were given bread, cheese and water. One of them carried my pack for me for the rest of the journey, and this increased our diminishing speed considerably. We reached the crest much earlier than we had anticipated, and were well ahead of Bois' estimated schedule when we started to descend. Upon reaching a belt of thick trees, one of our guides went to recce as he didn't know the way himself. He returned and said we were in the right position, that there was no point in his coming further with us, and all we had to do was to walk towards the river, a few thousand feet below us. It sounded easy enough. We paid his fee, said 'good-bye' and continued. After walking for perhaps fifteen minutes, it was as clear as daylight that he had hoodwinked us very successfully. The river was certainly in sight, but so was a precipitous drop separating the low lying land from the trees in which we were unhappily stuck. After a little food, we decided to work our way round to the northward. The descent that followed was, I think, one of the most tiring we ever did. The ground was very steep, often more than 450. Loose stones and thick leaves offered little foothold and frequently minor avalanches went clattering down to the valley from our very feet. It was essential to cling on to every tree and available branch to avoid going with them. After an hour or so of frantic scrambling (often in the sitting position) we reached a partly dried up water course and followed it. Later it was necessary to take to the higher ground again when the gradient became even worse. Progress was slow of necessity, as loose boulders combined with intense fatigue, were an ever growing danger. Eventually, however, we reached a track which, in turn, led to a metal road running down the mountain side to the Ishre. We took it, thankful to be on solid ground again.

A mile or so ahead we could see the remains of a demolished car or lorry, and later, when we reached it, the evidence of a Maquis action some days before. Worse than this, we noticed a stone built pillbox. We watched for some minutes for signs of movement, but saw none. There was nothing to show whether it was occupied or not - nor was there any feasible way of bypassing it. We stopped by the side of the road to examine our appearance.

We took off our anklets, our belts and our pistols, and stowed them in our packs. Although still in uniform, at least we looked sufficiently dishevelled to pass, perhaps, as civilians in khaki trousers and shirt (which many wore).

With our heads in the air (and one eye on the pillbox) we set off down the road at a reasonable pace trying to look as though the country belonged to us, and on towards the pillbox.

Conversation was limited. At any moment we expected to see a German tin hat in the aperture in the concrete. My boots seemed to make a hideous clatter on the road. As the pillbox came nearer, I would have given anything to be able to take to my heels and sprint past it, or to spread wings and fly. However, nothing happened and it was empty. We then heard a lorry approaching, so took a track alongside the road which screened by bushes. This led us past a field where a farmer was turning his hay. We called him over to us.

After a few minutes talking, during which we got little sense from him, we set off again, this time for his sister's farm a few hundred yards away. It was sometime before our knocks and calls were answered, but finally, a woman appeared and we were invited to enter.

I shall never forget my relief at being once more within four walls and under a roof. I had not sat on a chair for many days, had not been able to rest my elbows upon a table in front of me. My pack, too, had begun to feel as though it were filled with lead. We sat down and she listened to our story. Bread, cheese, milk and water were soon brought out for us and we ate ravenously. Her husband then appeared, and sat down with us.

They showed no sign of fear at entertaining us, nor did they ask us to hurry. They seemed completely to disregard the fact that they would be shot instantly if discovered helping us.

We sat, talked and ate. The farmer's wife gave us bread, cheese and eggs to take with us. The farmer also gave us the name of a man in La Riviere who would arrange our crossing of the river. After two hours or so, we said 'good-bye'; the farmer escorted us to a safe field, where we could wait until dark, shook hands and left us.

We were beginning to receive the true hospitality of the French peasants - and true it was. From this moment onwards we were never once refused assistance. Some were more nervous than others - all knew the risk they ran by helping us - torture, killing and burning of their farms.

Still very tired, though rested and refreshed, we put on our packs again at dusk to make our way towards the river. It was possible to keep to tracks for the most part. Passing another farm, we stopped to enquire about the route and to ask for more food. They took us inside. Milk, bread and cheese were put before us, which, having by now an almost insatiable hunger, we ate without needing encouragement. They were nervous though, lest a German patrol should come and find us in the house, so we hurried and left with more food for our journey.

It was not long before we heard voices coming from another farm a hundred years ahead of us. Automatically, we suspected Germans to have occupied or to be visiting it. We cocked our pistols and made a detour. Desmond (I thought he was crazy at the time) decided to creep up to the front door of the farm house and to look inside - and how lucky he did! They were Maquis from the Vercors - a party of perhaps fifteen, the farmer and his wife who were feeding them that night, and their two daughters. We walked in and were greeted by some of the men who recognised us. Soup, bread, butter and honey were given us, and quantities of hot coffee. Hot! the first hot drink I had had since 21st July except for a doubtful brew which Desmond made one day in the woods over my air-raid candle!, the success of which though considerable, was qualified. We ate and drank our third supper. For the first time since leaving the Vercors I felt well fed, and quite enjoyed my stomach-ache during the night which followed.

The party of Maquis was waiting to cross the river, and we could not have possibly found a better place. We were introduced to a Frenchman there who made it his job to conduct parties to a secret rendezvous on the river bank where a friend on his kept his barc, and who personally ran a ferry service for the benefit of escaping members of the Resistance. A party was crossing the next night and we were to be included in it. All arranged!

That night was spent in the woods nearby - a night of limited comfort for me as the ground on which I was lying was far from horizontal. I had to wrap myself round a small tree to avoid waking up in the valley below. we rested and slept all the following day.

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